Personal Narrative: The Handgun

I lay in my backyard, staring at the clear night sky. ((((((My blond hair is spread out in a halo around my head, which I would imagine makes me look similar to an angel. I find the thought of me as an angel so funny, that I almost laugh out loud. I am nothing like an angel. Not even close.))))))
I turn my head to the side and examine a shimmering dew drop dancing on the edge of a stranded maple leaf. I normally would consider this moment dreamlike, but the cool metal handgun pressed against my side keeps me awake, keeps me here. I pull the handgun out of it’s holster and turn it around in my hands. It feels strange and unfamiliar. I look at the barrel, which is signed by both of my parents, along with a small note that read, ‘Happy 16 Emma!’ For my sixteenth birthday, I wanted a pearl necklace with a real iron chain and clip. But no, they had to buy me a handgun. A handgun. I slip it back into its brown, leather holster and
She responded, “Yes sweetie. He had to be good at least at one point in time. He wasn’t born evil, he was just influenced.” I remember nodding and changing the subject. A loud crash brings me back to now. With wide eyes, I rush to my house and thrust the door open when I get there.
“Mother? Father? Lindy?” I call out, but the only response I get is the large empty house echoing my words back to my. I search for the source of the noise, and I soon find a large pan of freshly made spaghetti turned upside down on the wooden floor. I glance over at the kitchen table, where I find a small scrap of paper with my sister’s handwriting all over it. It read, ‘Hey Ma, Pa, Emma. I drove to town with a couple of friends. I left around 6:00 and I’ll be back around 9:00. -Lindy’ I peek at the clock, which read 8:40. The knot that my stomach is tied in loosens a little. She’ll be home soon, it's only 20 minutes. I reassure